Chapter 1

"How are we today?"

John stared at his therapist, his eyes vacant of emotions. How did she think he was feeling? He had been feeling the same way for over a year now. It wasn't about to be something that magically changed overnight. Why was he even doing this? It wasn't like she was helping. How would he ever be able to get over the grief of losing his best friend, of losing Sherlock? As a former army doctor, he should have been able to see the tell tale signs of Sherlock's depression; he should have been able to tell that he was about to commit suicide before he did.

But instead, he had failed as a doctor and a best friend.

The therapist produced a small frown as she watched John. She bent her head down to write something on the pad on her lap before locking her gaze on him again.

"You're still thinking about the past; about the incident."

Incident. The way she said it made it sound like she was making light of the subject. His best friend was dead now. It wasn't an incident. It was a tragedy.

When he didn't say anything, the therapist jotted down another note, no doubt writing that she had been right with her assumption.

"John, these sessions are to help you get over your grief. In order to do that, you have to cooperate with me. You need to vocalize how you're feeling."

He looked intently at the therapist, his eyes finally clouding over with slight traces of grief.

"I'm feeling the same way I've been feeling ever since his death; empty. I miss my best friend, and no matter how long I sit in your office, it'll never make me get over it."

"But you're a soldier..."

"Yes," said John, cutting her off. "I've seen death, but then, the death couldn't be avoided. Every time I went out onto the battlefield with my fellow comrades, we knew that death could be waiting just in front of us. But this, this death could have been avoided if I had only seen the signs."

"So, you believed that Sherlock's death was a suicide?"

"What kind of question is that?" asked John. "Of course it was."

"Right, sorry."

The therapist jotted down a few more notes before standing up and walking to her desk.

"I think I realize the root of your problem; of why you can't let go of this grief inside you."

He watched her, his eyes locking on her. She pulled open one of her desk drawers and bent down slightly to retrieve something, slipping it into the pocket of her dress.

"What's that?" asked John. "I lost my best friend. Why shouldn't I still be grieving?"

"John," she said in a slow, measured voice as if he were an irrational child that wouldn't listen to reason, "The reason that you are still feeling all this grief inside is because you refuse to let go of the past. You have to try to move on; focus on all the good memories that you have of Sherlock. Instead, you're wallowing in the past and drowning in your grief."

She stood in front of him, her lavender dress outlining her sleek form. She reached one of her hands into the pocket of her dress, clamping her hand around the content as she drew it out.

"I have something for you that I think might help."

She extended her clamped hand to John, finally unclamping it to reveal the content. A wristwatch lay in the palm of her hand.

"A watch?" asked John, looking at the therapist as if she was the one that needed counseling. "How will that help me?"

"This watch is a symbol that you should focus on the present time instead of reflecting on all the time that you have lost. You can't wallow in the past. Time will always move forward whether we want it to or not. All we can do is live in each moment."

"So it's merely symbolic?" asked John, looking at the watch.

"Yes. Wear it and it'll help you remember what I just told you."

He stared at the watch that still lay in the palm of her hand, not making any move to take it.

"Just humor me. At least pretend you're getting something from these sessions."

He looked up at the therapist who had her hazel eyes locked on his. Maybe she was right. At least he could humor her. He reached forward and grabbed the watch, retracting his hand as he stared at the watch face, looking at the digital numbers.

"Thank you," she said, a kind smile spreading across her face.

He merely nodded, placing the watch on his wrist and tightening the strap.

"I assure you that it'll help you to move on from the past."

He just nodded again, highly doubting that, but finding no reason to argue with the therapist.

"I think that that'll be all for today's session, John. I shall see you next week."

He stood up from the chair, faking a small smile for her.

"Thank you. See you then."

He wished that he could stop these sessions, but if he did, he would have no hope of overcoming his grief. At least by visiting the therapist, he was allowing himself to hope that he'd someday be able to get over it. Hope was better than nothing.

As he walked out of her office, and outside, he watched the hustle and bustle of downtown London with a vacant look. He felt disconnected from everything since Sherlock's death. Life seemed to be moving by without him. He merely felt like a bystander now; a bystander who stood on the outskirts of life and watched everything rushing by.

John flagged down a cab and got inside, telling the cabbie the address to his apartment. During the ride, he looked down at the watch the therapist had given him, tapping the face lightly with his finger. The numbers inside kept on ticking away the minutes. All John wanted was to go back; go back to all the good times that he had had with Sherlock on their cases. He didn't realize how lonely life would become without his best friend.

As he tapped the face of the watch, one of his fingers accidentally hit a button on the side of the watch. The watch beeped once, the numbers flashing momentarily. John raised a brow at that, wondering what the watch was doing. It must be malfunctioning already. Figures that a symbolic watch from a therapist would be a cheap thing.

"John, stop tapping. You're distracting me."

John closed his eyes, his pulse pounding in his head. That voice. It couldn't possibly be. He was just imagining it. His grief had finally made him go crazy.

"Car sick?"

Again. The voice. It sounded like it was right beside him; it sounded real. That couldn't possibly be. He allowed himself to crack open one eye and look at the seat beside him.

Seated beside him in the cab was a ghost. Seated beside him in the cab, alive and in the flesh was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock quirked a brow at John, a small smile spreading across his face.

"We're not even at the crime scene yet, and you're feeling sick."

John's eyes widened, his pulse quickening. He immediately pressed himself against the door of the cab, closing his eyes again.

"I'm dreaming. This is just a dream," he said out loud, terrified, hoping that would make this realistic mirage fade away.

Sherlock chuckled, placing his hand on John's shoulder.

"You're not dreaming, John. What is going on in your head today?"

John opened his eyes again, staring at Sherlock.

"But...but I watched you..."

"Yes?" asked Sherlock, prompting John to continue, wondering why he had trailed off.

"Wait...what day is it?" asked John. If this was a dream, it would be any day that he wanted it to be. He thought up a day in his head, deciding upon May 15th, 2014.

Sherlock nodded toward John's wristwatch.

"Why don't you consult your watch?" he suggested.

John looked down at his wristwatch to see that the date was not May 15th, 2014, but instead April 6th, 2013. He gulped. This wasn't a dream.

"No...this can't be..."

"Is today a bad day or something?" asked Sherlock, starting to chuckle again.

He looked back at Sherlock.

"You're real?"

"The last time I checked I was," he chuckled even more.

John didn't know what came over him, but he dove forward, wrapping Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock, startled by this, gently patted John's back.

"Um...John,...what are you doing?"

He was alive. He was here. He was breathing. He wasn't buried in the ground underneath a granite stone with his name engraved on it. He was here, and alive again. He held him tighter, trying not to shake with relief.

"John..." Sherlock tried to break the embrace, managing to slowly.

As he did, his hand accidentally hit the button on the side of John's watch. As John sat back up, reaching up to dry his tears, Sherlock was no more.

"Wait! Where did you go?"

John looked wildly around the cab, wondering how Sherlock had vanished in thin air.

He immediately looked at his watch, seeing that he was once again, in the present time. Somehow he had managed to travel back into the past, and all he wanted to do was go back. He immediately began to press a variety of buttons.

"DARN IT!" shouted John in frustration when it wouldn't work. He had to figure out how to make the watch work again. He had done it once before.

The cabbie looked up into his rear view mirror at the shout, raising a brow at him.

"Is everything all right back there?" asked the cabbie.

John looked at the now vacant cab seat beside him, looking back down at the watch's face.

"They were..." he replied.

He had managed to travel back into time. He didn't know how, but he had. He was going to do that again. This time, he had a destination in mind; a purpose that he had to accomplish. He would go back to the moment of Sherlock's suicide and save him from killing himself. He knew changing the future could be dangerous, but it was more dangerous for Sherlock to be dead.

Right now, the future was in John's hands and it was time to change things.

AN: I realize that this is a quirky, weird story, but if you did like it, please let me know through a review. Those encourage me greatly. I'll continue it if I know people want to read more. :) Thanks for reading it if you have. :)